


Ou La Mort

by Bottlewater



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Angst, Assassin's Creed: Unity, Gen, Platonic Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-19
Updated: 2015-02-26
Packaged: 2018-03-13 18:30:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3391853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bottlewater/pseuds/Bottlewater
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I didn't like Sequence 7 Memory 3 so I rewrote the whole game.  (actually a lot of this is canon-adaptation (book-canon included), mostly canon-bend, and the full canon-break isn't until half-way through.)  I LOVED AC Unity, and this work is not a reflection against it's writers or Bowden.  besides S7M3.  This 'extended version' of ACU brings in a new cast of over two dozen OCs, most inspired by the nomad brotherhood and co-op figures.  (yes, the chapters are named after trophies and fake-leaked trophies.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Picture Of Arno Dorian

**Author's Note:**

> axeman: Claude Chevrier  
> greencoat: Gilles Varlet  
> young icecream (E3 trailer): Matthieu Lejeune, son of —>  
> old icecream (rest of promotional media): Frédéric Lejeune

**ANCESTOR: Arno Dorian**

**December 27, 1976**

Versailles' sky was clear and the winter air crisp, as Arno was again being towed with his father to 'business matters'.  Of course he had been dreading this no less than any other episode, since these usually mean he is left unoccupied, which usually results in a misadventure and then scolding with no excitement to show for it.  But when he entered the palace courtyard, it was the first visit in some months and had forgotten how grand the Palais de Versailles was, its wings surrounding the father & son as they neared the door and walked inside.

Revelers and servants bustled about, as the pair stepped into the entry hall.  M. Dorian was picking a chair for Arno to wait when his hand slipped away, and that was all took for the boy to be left behind.

"Arno!"  The boy slapped out of the intrigue of a _cochon de lait_ being carried away on a silver platter.  His father motioned him over, and he obediently took his seat.

"Can't I go with you, father?" Arno tried, just once before being left alone.

"Courage, my boy."  His father smiled, and retrieved something from his robes; his pocket watch.  "I will return when this hand," directing to the minute, which hung a quarter from six o'clock, "reaches the top."

"That's forever," Arno groaned.

"Not as long as all that," his father patted his knee kindly, "and when I get back, we'll see the fireworks!"  He gave another reassuring smile and took his leave, except "And Arno?  No exploring, hmm?"  Arno of course replied "Yes, father."  And the next thing Arno was alone in the empty, sweeping hall, all other guests cleared out and the silence resounding throughout.

The minutes rolled by, Arno looking for anything remotely interesting.  He was turned around in this chair, looking at a painting of some man in a blue robe and tight white stockings, when girlish laughter caught his attention.

And there she was, across the hall peaking around the busts, a girl so dolled up her costume beat many of the noble ladies here at the monarch's home.  But her air didn't match, her very presence lurking around the palace set her apart from other children he had met.  Especially other girls, only shadowed their mothers all prim and proper.

"You'd rather sit with that old prune?  Come on!"  Arno without a second thought jumped up and followed her out the hall.

* * *

**December 28, 1976**

What little he had known that twist would change his life.  The same hour the next day, they had not seen the fireworks, they had not returned home or got up the next morning to discover what plans were in store.

Instead he was in a unfamiliar Versailles estate, a home of whom he only knew as strangers, except the red-headed girl he had shared some fleeing minutes of excitement with yesterday.  He sat outside the study with a blanket beside him and a cup of hot chocolate, which he didn't have much taste for.  It felt as though he was waiting for his father, like so many other times, and any moment he would come up the stairs and take him home.  It was like he had been waiting for a whole day, and changed buildings, and wondering why he hadn't come back when the watch's hand was at the top.

He picked up the watch again, barely caring to dodge the sharp corners of the shattered glass face, and stared at the hand, which was clearly past its mark.  It hadn't moved since he'd seen it there yesterday, when he was standing amidst the crowd whispering over his father.  Beyond his cloudy thoughts he felt, that maybe, if he had obeyed his father's wish, they would have left together as they came and went to see the fireworks...

The study door opened, and a man—another stranger—walked out and left down the stairs.  Then he heard, "Arno," and looked up to see the friendly man from yesterday.  His newest friend's father, M. de la Serre.

The man smiled as cheerfully as he could pull off, and started, "You will stay this night here with us again.  It won't be long before things quiet down for you."  He sat next to him on the couch, "Has Èlise been good company?"

Arno nodded solemnly.  Èlise had already become his companion in the past day they'd known each other.  She rode next to him in the carriage leaving the palace, they shared dinner that evening, kinsman as children in a world of stuffy adults.  It was a little light that had come to his life in just enough time...but right now, he would rather be home and with his parent like he had two nights ago.

M. de la Serre wrapped his arm around his shoulders, and confidently spoke, "You will always be welcome here, Arno."

And the boy thought, his world had been flipped over, and each hour was a mystery.  But in this fancy house with Èlise and her parents perhaps things would be comfortable, and the monsieur's offer was the best thing reality had for him.

* * *

**ANCESTOR:  Frédéric Lejeune**

**December 28, 1776**

Early that morning, word had arrived from Versailles.  A murder, right in the middle of the great entry hall, but no witnesses were present at the moment of the event.  The body had been identified as Charles Dorian, a nobleman who lived in the city with no family or unsettled business, so outside parties were closing his estate and quickly moving on.  But in the center of Paris, the name with death in the same sentence stirred hearts and a dark, oppressive quiet laid over the Café Théâtre.

Making his way down the staircase, the only thing to hear was the clamor of dishes being collected and washed from the lunch crowd.  All of the agents used hushed voices this day, and the staff, most of them ignorant of the society beneath their building, still picked up the cue and their usual chatter seemed to be on holiday.

Frédéric shortly stepped in the café's great room, and the assassin looked about the modest building; the paint that had been neglected too many years was fading, some tiles were missing their corners, and the walls were plain.  So far the lacking didn't distress business so terribly that profits were entering the red, but of course, some were concerned that if up-keeping continued to be ignored, the café had few years left.

As if any renovations mattered, today of all days.  He was seeking his partners, but no one of the faction was in sight.  He crossed the sunken dining space, weaving past the stewardesses, and into the back pantry; there on the far wall was the door reserved for 'special faculty', and Frédéric stepped inside.

Down more stairs, these that were stone in the medieval-styled clubhouse, and bouncing off the walls were some familiar voices.  He turned the corner, and there were a few of his comrades.  His brothers and sisters, people who knew the reason for the dreariness this day.

In the corner opposite to him, three initiates were conversing inaudibly.  They probably weren't old enough to know their lost member well.  Across the room, a couple of men were lounging against the columns.  One face he knew well, a partner of his team.  The assassin gave an empty smile and nodded, and Frédéric returned the gesture.

At the opposing corner to him was the most useful figure, and he quietly crossed over to him.  The council member met his eyes as he approached, and he probably knew then what questions were burning in his mind.

Frédéric stood silently for a moment, then asked, "How is everyone taking the news?"  An awful way to pose the question, as if the answer didn't float all through the air of the establishment, but the councilman knew exactly who he was talking about.

"Charles is a painful loss to us, but the brotherhood doesn't fall with a single member.  Neither will Bellec.  He will be back up tomorrow, action will be as good for him after a short break."

Frédéric nodded solemnly.  He had business to catch up with the trainer, but nothing was urgent, it could all wait for days if need be.

M. Dorian however deceased had worse problems than any of them.  The scene of the crime left no traces of the murderer, all they knew was it undoubtedly was Templar-doing.  But that wasn't the trouble, his 8-year-old son hadn't been found by any of the creed's agents yet.  The only rumor was he had been taken in by another nobleman, they had no name, and for all circumstances they had reason to fear the worst.

"And no new word on his family?"

"No, Monsieur Lejeune," the council member replied, "It's been a short time, we'll find a lead on the boy.  Whoever's hands he's in, he probably has not left Versailles.

It's a small city, they would find him.

He left the club hall, through the pantry and the dining area like he had come.  The bustling of the cleaning had moved into the kitchen, and the room almost hummed in silence.  The only other sounds was the light crowd noise on the street, and for a moment he unwound to the somber calm until another voice broke over.

A child's was coming from the main staircase, and Frédéric followed to it.

"Papa?" he called, hanging around the balcony.  Frédéric looked up and it was indeed the only child who was here frequently at the headquarters, though to his confusion.

"Matthieu, weren't you at the market with your mother?"

"Papa," the boy at last saw him, "no...she said I should stay with you today," and started down the stairs.

His son, only two years older than Dorian's.  He had his father's black hair and his mother's nose, and was a competent little servant for the café, but most of all the brightest joy in his home.  He had both his parents, a secure house, and being so close to the brotherhood in Paris, countless allies of his father to take him if any of that life were to fall apart.

As Frédéric watched him come it all soaked in.  Matthieu was too big to hold anymore, but he hugged him picking his feet up from the floor.  Whatever backup the boy had, he needed to stay as his father no matter the sacrifice.  It was all that much more disturbing that Dorian's death had been such an accident.  It was dangerous business, but he was at the king's palace, crowded on a daily basis, and still no protection, no witnesses.

* * *

**ANCESTOR:  Arno Dorian**

**January 16, 1777**

The de la Serre estate had a spirit of its own, standing in a foreign part of Versailles, carrying on everyday with affairs that were oblivious to Arno's former life.  Every day felt strange for him, he was a guest in his best friend's house, waiting for how much longer until his father came to take him home.

But every day was a step towards a new comfort, a new life with a warm family, two parents instead of one and a figure like a sister.  Hourly life was still much like the one he had known, living in a manor with servants and rules.  And Èlise brought something knew to that noble life, the care-free attitude Arno hadn't quite discovered before her.

While the back of his conscious awaited his father, he had new things to be occupied with; the two, Arno & Èlise, were always either chasing outside in the lawns, or rousing about in the great room, or tormenting the servants in the kitchen.  They brought out the worst mischief in each other, but also cheer brighter than either had known, before the ghastly event brought them together.

As much as Arno missed his old life, he was coming to love his new one.  Whatever the future the de la Serre's held for the little boy he didn't know or care, but in these days, he was rebuilding one experience at a time.


	2. Youth In Versailles

**ANCESTOR: Arno Dorian**

**May 13, 1778**

The past two years had been filled with joy and adventure for the two children at the de la Serre estate, a compilation of sunny days on the lawns, fireside evenings during the biting winters, favorite pastries, tree climbing, and trouble-doing; the latter usually Èlise's ideas.  For Arno, the time in his new home however had not been without mystery.  Unsavory mysteries, that is, being like a ward rather than a son, there was an air of secrecy and a boundary that lay between him and his playmate.

Arno had never felt it so strongly as when Madame de la Serre turned ill.  His afternoons that used to be hopscotch and backgammon with Èlise where instead whittled away searching for entertainment, while the family upstairs wept for their loss.  He did receive new attention from Monsieur de la Serre, they dueled in the yard and made occasional hunting trips.  But Arno no more shared the family's grief; in private they mourned, and alone he was counting until his best friend returned, and their days of play continued.

He was oblivious to the change the event upstairs held.  Until after Èlise did rejoin him, and things never picked up to how they left off.

Arno watched in courtyard as the carriage drew up, parked feet away from him by the front door, and the valets loaded it with trunks.  A moment later Èlise and her father came from within the château, his arm across her shoulders, her face unreadable.

She was leaving to the Maison Royale, if Arno had heard correctly.  It was a boarding school, with suitcases and dramatic goodbyes, it didn't bode well.  He already missed the morning tutoring sessions, in this new fashion how often would he see her?

The trunks were all fastened in place, and the driver sat waiting.  Her father then turned to her, and they passed some tender words inaudible from Arno's distance before he kneeled, and the two hugged for a long minute.  M. de la Serre at last broke away and gave a kiss to her forehead.

Arno then walked over, wondering just how long he was saying goodbye for.

Her father stood aside to give the little couple their moment.  Arno started, not sure what to say, "I hope you have fun at your new school, Èlise."  His words came out so empty.

Èlise smiled bleakly, "Thank you, Arno. ...I will.  We'll see each other again soon."

He brightened at the prospect, although it wasn't quite believable.  And after an uneasy moment, the companions hugged in the awkward stiffness children often do; except, they were the best friends each other had, and brief as it was they both felt a little comforted inside.

So with another last glance at her father, Èlise boarded the carriage, and in a few breaths it had left the courtyard and was out of sight.

Perhaps it was better for Arno's pain to not know their childhood was gone, or what treatment awaited Èlise.

* * *

**August 9, 1786**

The apartments in Versailles became Arno's home a year ago, when after his 17th birthday the M. de la Serre decided the boy needed to learn something about independency.  And Arno had come to like living alone, a lot more than he would have imagined.  His pad was modestly comfortable; a spoiled face of him missed the luxury he had known at the de la Serre estate, but it was far higher in standards than the trashy neighbors.

It took hardly a month for him to love the new lifestyle.  He jumped around employment, brought any fetching ladies to his private home, and whatever money he accumulated he took to Pharaoh games in the evenings.  Probably not what M. de la Serre had hoped for him...

One such night on the upper floor of a tavern, Arno was having his usual Bordeaux, and many familiar faces had shown up for the game.  To his left was Fernand, a regular visitor of this particular pub, and poor for him wasn't a lucky sort at cards.  In the back corner were three girls lauding a ruffian out of the game several rounds ago, and looking so drunk he would likely retch on them any minute.  Two of them he had entertained it at his home, Madeleine and Bernadette...or Benoite?...it started with a 'B', Arno thought.  He drew his attention to across the table where sat his two most troublesome opponents, that being since he had moved to the digs; looking untrusty as ever and making coarse remarks with the ladies of the night, Victor and Hugo.

The next round was about to start and Arno was having a lucky night.  All the boys toppled forward replacing their chips, save Fernand who let the girl in his lap keep him pinned to his seat.

He slurred to Arno, "It's your watch's turn on the board, pillock!  Don't keep it wimpin' out!"  Followed by a burp so abrupt the girl jumped, apparently he had more wine than usual tonight.

Ever since that one time Arno flashed his pocket watch at one of these games, Fernand had picked up a fondness for it.  It showed obviously he didn't care for the trinket's value, but he had built a power-struggle around it as if no one else in France owned something to win.  Arno hoped that someday soon someone would walk in this tavern with something more catching to take his mind off it, for both their sakes.

He took out the watch and waved it to him, grinning, "Your fortune won't improve tonight, Fernand, best you retire with your empty bottle before you lose it too."  Arno clenched the watch in his lap, later he thought of this and wished he had put it back in his waistcoat.

Meanwhile a blasting crack came from across the room, indeed the lost gamer had fallen into a table.  Madeleine and Benoite stumbled backward, but then giggling hysterically and joining arms.  The two weren't courtesans, but their enjoyment of teasing boys was very misleading.  In fact they had grown up in the rich district of Versailles, though having escaped their constructs to be in the merriment of this tavern.  The third girl was a friend of theirs by the looks of it, and also looking very much out of place.  She turned away from the drunk, her pink frilly dress swishing gracefully, and caught Arno's eye.  He winked at her, trying to look more charming than leering than all the other drinkers in the room.

And though his own bottle sat in front of him almost empty, he was still convincing.  Because the girl started her way over, or...it was because her friends were coming already.  Madeleine swished her sage dress playfully as she skipped to him and leaned over his shoulder, "You'll buy me something pretty with all those winnings tonight, Arno?"  She danced her fingers down his sleeve, "By the look of it I'll be more lavish than the queen!"

"There's no improvement that can be added to you, _ma chère_ ," he smirked.

With a round of cheer the banker began drawing the next cards, until suddenly—downstairs there was an uproar of shouts and the ringing of steel.

"Sounds like some drunks escalated their action," said someone across the board.  The room cleared out as half the partiers, gamblers included, rushed towards the stairs.  They were all pushing their way for the best view or making out the door.  Arno had a twinge of anxiety too, though he told himself it probably was just some drunks that brought their knives out for show.  Nothing very threatening.  He found himself pushing his chair out anyway, accidentally bumping into one—then two of the girls, kindly apologized and then made towards the lower floor.  All three of them were trailing behind, Madeleine in particular holding on to his forearm.  They still giggled though a bit nervous now.

Sure enough, the two fighting could hardly keep their balance, and everyone was either standing in the circle around or rushing out the door.  In the commotion Arno was tripped and almost fell into the stair railing, but he caught himself—and doing so, his precious watch slipped across the floor.

The someone who's feet it stopped under saw it coming their way, they bent over to pick it up, and that someone was of course no one else but Fernand.

Arno gathered himself up, "Wait now, you'll get your chance to win it fairly someday!"  but he was already out the door.  Arno bolted after him, and hardly noticed his fanclub still carrying behind.

The tavern was on the outside of the district, so where the street was a horizon of grass and isolated lamps in the distance.  In this corner of the village was a yard of unkempt hedges like an abandoned noble's courtyard.  It was a popular hangout in the day and quiet at night, so Arno thought Fernand was very stupid when he hurdled over the hedge line instead of taking the crowded streets.  He must have been really drunk.

Benoite ran all excited towards the yard carrying her skirts and yelling, "He went that way, Arno!"

"Yes, I saw!"

The other pink and sage dresses took off into the hedges even before him.  Anyone else would think they'd had their fill of drink, but Arno knew at least Madeleine well enough that she was like that even on an empty stomach.

So in the night Arno leaped into the maze as after all of them.  He tried to track the most likely paths, Fernand and the pocket watch had gone out of sight, the three girls pretending at the chase but were making more by the minute careless game each other.  They yelled and laughed occasionally bumping into Arno and each other, he teased them at there silliness, but any other time he would have joined after them.  Nearly a quarter of an hour passed this way, and Arno wondered if Fernand was even still in the yard.  It was dark enough that the best way he could track the ladies was their squealing.

At last he heard his target huffing and puffing ahead, and to the right it sounded, but the sound was moving away from him.  He wondered if he could trick him in this darkness and out of mind as he were, a diversion could turn him his way.  So Arno grabbed up a loose brick and hurled it down Fernand's road, and caught up to where he could cut him off.

And it worked—he jumped over a hedge only to be right in front of Arno, who finished his trap and tackled him.

"I don't have your damn watch, bastard!  Get your bony arse off me!"

Too drunk and bony himself to fight back, Arno kept him pinned down and searched every pocket, but he hadn't lied: the pocket watch wasn't on his person.  "This isn't over, Fernand, you'll tell—" the next squirm caught Arno's ankle and almost flipped him off, but he retaliated in time and knocked the punk square in the eyes.  Maybe harder than intended, he fell out unconscious.

Arno stood leaving him in his pose of a drunk passed out in the garden, and swept himself off.  He scanned over the perimeter, and tried to not feel hopeless over the size of the yard.  He could come back tomorrow when it was light...or it still wouldn't show itself, and he may never see it again.

First he slipped over the bush, attempting to retrace Fernand's steps, he ran down the right side looking at each stone and under the shrubs covering the path.  He reached the end, then turned left, and ran down those shrubs, the whole while cries from the girls still rang in the distance.  At the next crossroad he stopped, looking down the hedges streaming on both ways, and denying to himself he had no idea which way Fernand had used.

"Arno," a young lady's voice called from ahead.

He looked up and saw a pink dress flouncing his way.  He rubbed his eyes, and through the darkness he could see her innocent face, smiling sweetly and she held out her fist for him.

Arno after a dazed moment reached out to her, and in his hand she placed his father's watch.

He studied it, surprised and relieved, and said "Merci, mademoiselle. ...I don't think I caught your name at the tavern?"

She still smiled sympathetically, "It's Adéle. This isn't my usual sort of nightlife," she shifted a little shyly, "but I was towing along with the other two."

He composed himself, and tried to smile charmingly winded though he was, "You're a pleasure to meet, Adéle."

She stood in thought for a moment, "Despite your choice in hangout...you still don't strike me as a numb thug like the rest of the guys in this part of town.  You could be doing more with yourself, couldn't you?"

Oh wonderful, his cute new girlfriend had just turned to a head mistress.  But she looked of good intentions, so he rolled it off, "I'm getting to that."

"Good with the cards, are you?"

"Not my best example tonight."

She grinned, and in the faint light yards away her eyes twinkled as though she knew more merriment than France had to offer.  In that image forgot lusty thoughts he usually gave for girls from the pubs, and was curious for her bright heart, and they chatted down the streets of Versailles as Arno walked her to her home.  It was the start of a friendship that would have more impact on his fate than he could have guessed from their brief visits in the next couple years.

* * *

**May 5, 1789**

A few months ago Arno had returned to the de la Serre château, making his days somewhat more constructive taking up chores from the butler, Olivier.  He of course hadn't entirely let go from his life of fun, and that afternoon he was paying a price for it.  Again a game of Pharaoh was involved with losing his pocket watch, and this time to Victor and Hugo's hands.  Arno stopped for nothing to reclaim it, so soon after it's loss he had, and graciously used M. de la Serre to wipe his guilt.

Some hours later the day had taken more eventful turns; first a letter from an lagging courier, which led to a chase across Versailles' rooftops to find M. de la Serre, and another merry encounter with his favorite thugs.  The resulting broken furniture and roused police delayed the "very important letter"'s delivery, but Arno was confident it would reach its recipient soon enough lying next to the study door.

And more importantly, Èlise had arrived home.

Well, not literally home at the estate.  For whatever slip-up Arno was a cut a chance to see her.

But he was fixing that now.  He'd made it over the palace wall, woven through the bristling crowd of guests, and crept through some closed-off rooms on the upper floor.  He kept behind the back of every guard, effectively crashing the royal party as easily as a drunken tavern.

He stood atop a balcony, finally closing in towards the commotion of chatter and dancing that laid inside.  He looked about the revelers for a way to the ballroom, this soirée was in her and so that's where she was bound to—

"You up there!  Stop!  Get, down!"

Arno peered below and met eyes with the single man that had spotted him, and smirked, "Will you let me back in if I do?"

"What?!" he baffled, "Absolutely not!"

"Well then if it's all the same to you," Arno ragged, and turned inside, "I think I'll just stay up here." The man's protests silenced with the shut door.

The ballroom buzzed in energy, guests were packed along the walls so that the middle carpet might have room for dancers.  There was no sign of Èlise, not in this mess.  But next to one of the dozen statues stood a young mademoiselle eying him, her cheeks a bit rosy even under the powder.  What a nice deed it would be to entertain her while using the clearance of the center floor to find the belle of the ball.

He put on his most charming smile, strutted over and offered his hand.  As quickly as could be she took it, and they strode in underneath the glimmering of the chandeliers.

"Care to dance, handsome?"

And there she was.

Her red curls flowed contrasting against her olive ballgown, as she leered him from the distance of several dancing couples away.  The prim look didn't capture her true spirit, but next to the tight-up suits and stuffy wigs, her glowing unrouged beauty put them all to shame.  When his attention caught up with her, she gave a sly smile, luring him to follow.

"Merci, another time."  He nodded off the random girl and forgot her before the poor thing had a chance and persuasion.

Through the ballroom they wove, their childhood games reblooming as lovers.  The whole party lost meaning to them, Arno's eyes only for her, and Èlise only thinking of finding their privacy.  Over the chittering crowd the he heard the gate guard, "Spread out and find him.  I'll not be made a mock of by the likes of _him!_ "  As if they had any hope for it.

Outside the ballroom Èlise was holding onto a threshold waiting for him, and as he approached she giggled and drifting through.  When he made around the corner she was of course running, and Arno chuckled to himself, "She always did love the chase."

He lost sight of her, and after passing through a bedroom was on a balcony on which the other side was an open door.  He pursued it but she surprised him from a room to his side, catching his arm and pulled him in.

She grinned, her evening plainly brightened by his presence.  And she teased, "You seem to have caused quite a commotion."

"What can I say?" he beamed likewise, and closed the door behind them.  "You were always a bad influence."

"Oh, you were a worse one."

And they finally kissed, long and passionate, their arms twining around each other.  Arno cherished every moment with her, but especially these that suggested his queen may reciprocate even half his love.  Wrapped up with her, there was no doubt she was the only girl for him.

She broke away, scanning him curiously up and down, "Are you wearing one of my father's suits?"

He scoffed, "Are you wearing a dress?"  Though she wore it better than any other lady dressed up tonight.

"Don't even start!"  she waved her finger across his face.  "I feel like a mummy wrapped up in this thing."

"Must be quite an occasion to get you so fancy."  He teased on, but maybe fishing for whatever reason was behind this party.

"It's not like that.  Truth be told it's a lot of ceremony and pontification.  Dull as dirt."

"Well," their faces drew close again, "when you don't invite me to your parties, everyone suffers."

"I did try, but father was adamant."

"...Your father?"  Sudden knocking right behind their heads broke them out of their serenity.

The guard shouted, "Who's in there?  Open up!"

Èlise slammed against the door and then giggled at Arno, "Go! I'll distract them."

"What?" he retorted, "You're kicking me out?"

"It's...complicated!" she pleaded, "I'll explain later, but for now: out the window."

He glanced across the room and then back at her, amused though irritated their visit was cut so short.  "Oh, no no no!  You're not turning this into a repeat of that apple orchard!"

"Stop being such a baby!" she laughed, "I'm sure there aren't any guard dogs this time."  She grabbed his justaucorps and gave a generous smooch goodbye, then pushed him off, "Go!"

For a moment longer he had to soak her beauty.  It had been many long weeks since he'd last seen her, though it might as well have been eternity.

Just before opening the door she peered over her shoulder to catch him, gazing in stupor at her, and smirked.  Then she stepped outside, and Arno took to his instructions.

"Ha, oh my! That wasn't the billiard room at all, was it?"  Arno heard her in the hall as he approached the window, he had to suppress a laugh so that her diversion might not be in vain.

The guards throughout his path posed no challenge, Arno slid behind the disordered furniture as if it were a novice's game.  They were bored out of their skulls and it seemed that the gate guard couldn't convince them of a threat.

He found his way out to the courtyard, that was empty and very silent compared to the clamor that filled it a short while ago.  Only was there François de la Serre in the center, wavering oddly.  He didn't know Arno was here, uninvited, stirring up the patrol, and even wearing his clothes.  Arno hardly cared—he'd already seen Èlise.  "You alright, monsieur?", he tried an innocent smile, "Too much of the king's champagne?"

M. de la Serre collapsed like a broken doll.

Arno stopped, "Monsieur?"  His hesitation was momentary and he ran over to his warden, "Monsieur de la Serre?!"

Kneeling over he shook the monsieur's body, but no alertness or breath stirred from him...and a wound shown on the backside of his neck.

He barely looked up in time to witness two shady men hurrying through a doorway.  One was hunched over covering his eye, and despite the darkness blood was visible dripping through his fingers.

Arno, in shock, still clutched his adoptive parent, and the palace guards ran up to the crime scene.  He turned around only fast enough to get a bash across his face and nothing more than darkness.


End file.
